Refert Retuli
by Hana no Ouji
Summary: Kagome and Kikyou have been summoned once more—from home and from hell, two years after the destruction of the Shikon no Tama, to assist in combating a force that threatens to destroy the heir to Midoriko’s legacy: Sango. InuSan MirKag
1. prologue :: flesh birth

**Refert Retuli**

: Hana no Ouji

**Genre**: General

**Rating**: PG-13

**Summary**: Kagome and Kikyou have been summoned once more—from home and from hell, two years after the destruction of the Shikon no Tama, to assist in combating a force that threatens to destroy the heir to Midoriko's legacy: Sango.

**Warnings**: Alternate pairings (Inu Yasha/Sango; Kagome/Miroku), suicidal themes, "naughty words," angst, and more than probably a healthy dose of violence. No, Sango is not dead.

**prologue** :: **flesh birth**

_I'll tell all about how you cheated_

_I'd like for the whole world to hear_

_I'd like to get even with you_

_'Cause you're leaving_

_But sad songs and waltzes aren't selling this year…_

Sad Songs and Waltzes – Cake__

_---_

The sole survivor of a murdered clan.

She mulled over this fact.

Dead brother. Dead father. Dead friends.

Sango felt lonelier now, cursing her morbid thoughts and clutching closer the sleeves of her checkered pink blouse so as to sooth the chilled bumps that briefly flickered onto her arms. And she berated herself for even momentarily experiencing some form of happiness in the past two years—she just…had no _right._ No right to be here, living, because of a visual error she had corrected a second too late—because she refused to lay down and _die_, instead opting for vengeance over swift reunion with her family.

And now she had Miroku—houshi-sama, who claimed she held the key to his heart. And yet even with him, the taijiya Sango felt a sense of detachment, unfulfilled and tugging at her heartstrings as she watched him (presumably with other women), soft eyes morbid. _The key to his heart._ Bullshit. She smiled lifelessly. What use was ownership a heart's key if the very same object was passed on so offhandedly?

Life… _What did Kagome-chan used to say? _…Sucked. Horribly.

Two years.

She still recalled the ashen glimmer of the Shikon no Tama as Kagome shot a sacred arrow directly in the jewel's side. Her holy powers had vastly increased in strength—the miko Kikyou had willingly sacrificed the fraction of her soul she still possessed. The Shikon no Tama had been destroyed. No wishes were granted in its name, no lives were saved… With a degree of pain and nostalgia, Sango recalled Kikyou's final words as her soul, a wisp of mist beginning to seep out of her chest.

_There is no such thing as an unselfish wish._

Her memories were clear and vivid, as if laid before her in an illustrated tale. For a moment, she wondered how Kagome was doing: how life five hundred years from then was; how often _her_ thoughts dwelled on a time long passed.

The taijiya felt her will dwindling; she sat at a table and dipped the thin paintbrush into the ink once more, swirling it about a few times before pressing the brush to the tapered end of the parchment before her, signing her name with a flourish. She then scanned the letter, waiting for the ink to dry out.

_To whom this may concern:_

_If you are reading this, chances are I'm dead._

_I have nothing._

_Take care of Kirara. Don't pull her tails._

_-Sango_

The taijiya stood, and in one fluid motion, dropped her blouse and the long green skirt, revealing her formfitting battle suit, sans many of the pink plates that adorned her joints when she decimated homicidal youkai. Her discarded outfit rasped against the wooden planks of the floor paneling; she picked up the parchment and rolled it into a tight scroll, securing it with a white ribbon. _That should do it,_ she thought with a self-satisfied smile. Short and blunt. No excuses. No long lamentation on how much this or that meant to her.

Her thoughts were clandestine—desolate—isolated—and forever undisclosed. Always had been. Her passion was in extermination—her sole refuge after her village and its people were razed. She was often so caught up in fights, so stereotyped as the "last taijiya" that no one noticed…how often she cried. (Or that she cried at all.)

Out of the small brace on Sango's right arm, a small blade shot out, its presence imperceptible against the skintight armor.

She spared the paper one last glance before beginning to cleave into the skin of her left wrist. The pain meant little, really. Nothing compared to what she faced on a bi-daily basis. The sharp metal edge slid beneath the black material, and beneath her skin, flaying away at it as one peels the bitter surface of a tangerine. A dark red liquid seeped out of the tear in the sleeve, but having little space to maneuver, the blood instead blotted and soaked a portion of her forearm. _Warm._ Inviting, even.

She cut deeper, brow knitting as she paid the dull sting little heed. And then, suddenly, the knife encountered an obstacle.

At first, she thought it was bone. Carefully—surgically—she maneuvered the blade beneath the hard item, but it merely shifted, gliding a little along the cool, blood-engulfed metal. _Did I dislocate something?_

She waved her arm slightly, starting from the elbow. A sharp pain jolted her senses as the wound tore slightly at the closures, and she flinched, but nothing seemed broken. She shook her arm again with renewed vigor.

It took a while. But something—something glistening and round, like a pearl only more pristine—gradually slid out of the cut. She recognized it at once, usually even face contorting with terror.

It was no pearl.

It was a jewel_._

Its surface glinted, so innocent and seemingly fragile. The taijiya let out an ear-piercing scream; blood loss began to nibble at her consciousness, and as soon as her lungs ran out of air to sustain her horror, Sango sank to the floor. The world—her surroundings—faded to black, and the Shikon no Tama itself seemed to bid her an eerily cheerful farewell.


	2. chapter 1 :: reminiscent dreamer

**Refert Retuli**

: Hana no Ouji

**Genre**: General

**Rating**: PG-13

**Summary**: Kagome and Kikyou have been summoned once more—from home and from hell, two years after the destruction of the Shikon no Tama, to assist in combating a force that threatens to destroy the heir to Midoriko's legacy: Sango.

**Warnings**: Alternate pairings, coarse language, suggestive dialogue, and a Linkin Park song. Please don't kill me. They're not that bad if you get over the angst of it all. Kikyou haters will not be tolerated. Sorry, kiddies. Standard disclaimers apply. By the way, if you look closely at the story summary, I tacked the two main pairings at the end. Marketing ploy. I suck. …Hi, reviewers! [Waves]

**chapter 1**** :: reminiscent dreamer**

Crawling in my skin 

_These wounds, they will not heal_

_Fear is how I fall_

_Confusing what is real_

_There's something inside me that pulls beneath the surface_

_Consuming_

_Confusing_

_This lack of self-control I fear is never-ending_

_Controlling_

_I can't seem_

_To find myself again_

_My walls are closing in_

Crawling – Linkin Park

---

_A younger Sango fell to the ground, arms crumbling and unresponsive. Though she could not twist her head around completely (that would entail breaking more than a few bones), she knew the makings of a bruise when she felt it; the metamorphosis was not meant to be watched by the eye, but she could _envision_ purplish splotches appearing on her shoulders, prepared to swallow the length of her backside. Her black hair clung wetly to the sides of her face like vines, having long slipped free of its slack ribbon. She spat blood and remnants of her lunch onto the dirt._

_"Get up, Sango," the voice of her father commanded from above, firm and pitiless. "We will…try again." Second chances—always with the second chances. If he was trying to be comforting, he was failing miserably._

_She wanted to cry—to unleash her agony in a torrent of tears. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her… "I…" She swallowed stale bile instead. "No…I can't. C-can't."_

_"Can," he said, his voice and the whimpers in her throat the only sounds drowning the quiet. "Can, and will. Now, get up! You need to learn this, and from this! If you keep making the same mistake over and over…" He trailed off, and his voice became softer, but not reassuring. "…We are only human, Sango. A weakness is something we cannot afford, especially as a taijiya. Weakness is _death_. Your mother was an example of what weakness is." _

_She needed energy. She needed to be tough to withstand the pain… "Don't talk about kaa-chan like that," she whispered to the darkness that shielded her sight. "Kaa-chan was the best there was…"_

_"The fact that she _died_ just proves that the best must get better!" _

_Sango splayed her palm against the ground, feebly hoisting herself up, eyes closed in an attempt to focus. "The best must get better," she whispered to herself._

_"Fool," a cold voice said mockingly._

_She did little to mask her terror, whirling about, paling when the visage of her father had vanished, as had the colorless scenery to which Sango had paid little heed. In his place was a young woman Sango instantly recognized as Midoriko, the priestess whose power outmatched that of a legion of demons, and instead of shadows, the background became Sango's burning home village… Midoriko's plated samurai armor reflected the strange sort of firelight in their bronze palette. Her face, rumored to hold an elegant beauty surpassing that of any goddess, was shredded and torn, revealing pink netted tissue crisscrossing green translucent veins through which blood danced. Eyes: an infinitely chilly shade of black, truly globes of dotted white due to the lack of eyelids to shield them. The façade of Midoriko was a fully clothed mass of walking, skinless flesh… A gaping hole was in the center of her bosom, revealing the pokey ends of ribs that ordinarily would have protected a human heart._

_Midoriko pulled back her lipless mouth in a mirthless grin, baring plaque-encrusted teeth. Maggots began to manifest in the transparent chasm, writhing squeamishly on the solid surface of her ribs. "History repeats itself."_

_"I don't understand!" Sango screamed at the priestess, silvery rivulets of tears trickling from the corners of her eyes._

_Midoriko took a step towards her. Crimson footprints marked her path, blood spurting out of her feet. "Someone is going to die," she said in a strangely gentle voice, almost motherly. Sango screamed again, scrambling away from Midoriko's outstretched hand, the chipped and bloody fingernails imbedded in a bed of spindly bone and flesh. A hand, a throng of rubbery muscle cushioning decaying bones, pressed against Sango's windpipe, meant to crush her neck as if it were as flimsy and featherweight…_

Fractured voices summoned Sango from the brink of literally dead sleep. The words flowed into one ear and out the other, and she struggled to make sense of them, though her mind was flooded with shattered thoughts; the loud tones and vulgarities indicated an argument of sorts was taking place above her. She paused for a moment, realizing only then that her teeth were clamping down onto her lower lip; she calmed almost imperceptibly, knotted muscles loosening. _Deep breaths,_ she told herself. But she couldn't fight the encroaching sensation that something horrible had—__

"…ing…idiot…lecherous…suicide!?"

"…didn't mean…know that…should've been…for her…"

"Damn RIGHT you should've…can't trust…anymore…stupid fuck…"

"The Shikon no Tama!" she cried, jolting upwards. A wave of numbness washed over her left forearm, but she ignored it; a startled hanyou and a frightened monk leapt backwards, reflexively assuming defensive stances. Miroku was the first to recover, relief flickering in his dark blue eyes. Just as spontaneously, Sango tasted something in the back of her throat; she leaned forward, expelling the contents of her stomach onto the bed sheets.

Sango wondered dully, head bowed over the blankets, glazed eyes leering into the lumpy, splattered vomit. _Did I dream?_ The taste was vile.

Inu Yasha blinked, looked at what had just been extricated from her innards, and smirked, a half-smile that didn't quite reach his haplessly piercing eyes. "Congratulations, Sango. I think you just invented a new color."

"Sango," Miroku chirped, rushing to her bedside with a smile. "You don't know how glad I am to see you awake." He wrapped his arms around her relatively thin frame in a desperate embrace. "I thought I'd—"

"Get your filthy hands off her," Inu Yasha snapped, suddenly livid. "It's _all your fault,_ dumbass! I should beat the hell out of you right now! You've got no right to act like everything's fuckin' DANDY!" The hanyou pulled back a red sleeve to bare a skinny but muscular fist, clenched and ready to let loose.

Sango remained impassive as the monk's grip tightened faintly. "I'm well aware of the fact that I am to blame," Miroku said stiffly, words concealing a hidden sadness and profound disappointment that almost broke Sango's heart. Keyword: almost. She decided to be inexpressive. "I must ask you, Inu Yasha, to have a little tact, though difficult that task may be for one such as yourself. My participation was indirect, but I assure you unintentional."

"You could've _prevented_ this, and you damn well know it!" Inu Yasha ground back, voice rising.

"I know it," Miroku said evenly, "and I'm sorry."

Inu Yasha had no retort to submission—Sango mulled over the fact that he was fairly predictable.

"And what's the screaming about!? The Shikon no Tama's long gone! It's broken, and I'm still a fucking hanyou!" he barked on a different note—in reference to her outburst upon awakening.

Sango's warm brown eyes shifted to bore into Inu Yasha's, and though she was usually unreadable, she felt reluctant to prove him wrong. Mistrust—his _dream_ was to become a full-blooded youkai. A skull-jarring ache consumed her head as she recalled one of Kikyou's many memorable (nonetheless bitter) statements—specifically, one proclaiming that the jewel should not fall into the wrong hands. She pressed her palm to her forehead. _What was I dreaming about…?_

"Are you alright, Sango?" Miroku inquired, pulling back to look at her. He frowned. "Did you have a nightmare?"

Sango contemplated her response for a moment before nodding. She did not try to smile.

"Is there anything you'd like to say? Any _reason_ as to why you…?"

"Feh. Pretty fuckin' obvious, ain't it?" Inu Yasha scoffed quietly, turning to the side to crisscross his arms. Miroku's eyebrows tilted downward in a mild expression of anger; he turned to glower a challenge at Inu Yasha—one that the hanyou readily accepted. "It's 'cause you weren't good enough for 'er, _monk,_" he said. "Hell, she might as well have a relationship with a fucking wall. It'd be more loyal."

Miroku grimaced, as if Inu Yasha had physically hit him. Sango suddenly had the urge to stride up to Inu Yasha and give him a good, hard kiss on the mouth, but her previous apprehension kicked in and she found herself pushing off the thick wool blankets and walking away from the enraged duo.

"You shouldn't be walking, Sango-san," the old, weary voice of Kaede called from a separate corridor. "You are still weak."

"She barfed on yer sheets, Kaede," Inu Yasha said with a snicker.

"Sorry," Sango added quickly, flashing the hanyou a murderous look. "I don't…I had a…" _Nightmare?_ One look at Inu Yasha's smug expression said that it would not be in her best interests to say she had a bad dream. _Idiot,_ she thought. But, that was Inu Yasha for you—either you liked him or you didn't, and taking into consideration her nature, her own opinion of him changed every couple of minutes.

A wrinkled, calloused hand waved dismissively from the doorframe. "Don't worry about it. You need your rest. You lost quite a bit of blood."

The taijiya paused. _Why don't I feel grateful?_ "Thank you for taking care of me," she said slowly, in awe of the low, wheezy pitch she had assumed in her comatose state. "But I have other matters to deal with…" She pressed one hand against the doorframe, knees buckling slightly. _Accursed weak body._

"What the hell!? Sango, sit your ass down! I'm not letting you outta my sight just so you can hack your arm off!" Inu Yasha exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at her.

"Your faith in me is…boundless, isn't it," Sango retorted dryly.

Miroku's eyes softened, and in two long strides he closed half of the distance between him and her. "As much as I would like to believe that you have no intention of…marring your flawless body further"—she blushed—"I am obligated to ensure as such. What, might I ask, are these pressing matters, and why can they not wait until you are healed?"

Again, Sango felt that tinge of reluctance, as if the gravity of the situation had yet to fully click. She abhorred the very idea—the troubled times of the Jewel of the Four Souls had supposedly ended. She felt the familiar weight of a burdensome task nestling itself on her shoulders, and she was hoping she had been seeing things, but… Sango swallowed. "I have to make sure of something," she said at last. And with that, she stepped out, suddenly becoming very aware of the fact she wore only a loose, leisurely kimono, with bandages suffocating the slit in her wrist; the taijiya folded her arms insecurely, dimly wondering who had undressed her, before setting off. She wasn't at all surprised when Inu Yasha and Miroku exited the house in hot pursuit.

"Is it a pressing matter?" Miroku asked, though he knew the answer.

"Yes," she clipped shortly, walking towards her home on the edge of the village. Thoughtfully, she added, "Very pressing."

Miroku nodded. Sango was Sango. She had remarkable intuition and instincts to rival the deceased Kikyou's. Inu Yasha appeared to deduce this as well, and dismissed his dubiousness. He was still frowning, though.

The village bustled, its people delightfully unaware of the fact that their protector was drowsily edging through town. With strength foreign to most conventional women, Sango shoved a select few people aside after politely asking them to move aside—a request to which they did not comply; she had little patience today, less so than usual. She was hoping against hope that she was merely hallucinating last night, that the jewel's recurrence was merely a figment of an overactive imagination…

Finally, she approached a door with a vertical sign bearing her name and the title "taijiya," quirking a brow in muted disapproval when she found the entryway wide open. It simply invited intruders with open arms. Intolerable. She stumbled to her room, eyes surveying the scenery of a picturesque home used only for sleeping and little else.

The desk. The note was gone—Sango presumed Miroku or Inu Yasha had taken it upon realization that she had tried to kill herself.

And there, lying innocently hidden between the clothes she had shed in order to commit one final, desperate act, was the jewel, immaculate and immortal.

"No," she whispered despairingly. The bane of many existences…the Shikon no Tama, created in finality and destroyed in the same hopes. "It's not…" Sango trailed off, trying to string together words or excuses for its presence; she sank to her knees, outstretched fingers curling around the iridescent orb, the burnished glow of her eyes accented by wetness. "This can't be real. It…" _Destroyed! By Kagome-chan! I saw it…_ "Can't be real; _isn't _real," she repeated to herself, clutching the jewel to her breast and gently rocking back and forth.

_Why from _me?__

_Why me?_

Sango reflected on her dream—that which she could barely recall; memory was a fickle thing. A shame, too; she was so close to remembering, and with each attempt to mentally illustrate it, it slipped through her fingers once again, leaving her confused and clueless. Sango hated being clueless. She was murmuring the same words over and over…but she just couldn't _help_ it. It just couldn't be real.

Inu Yasha watched, at first with his natural contempt and disdain derived from years of shunning and _being_ shunned in turn. _The girl's cracked,_ he observed. Then concern for his comrade-in-arms overcompensated for his arrogance, and he maneuvered in front of the taijiya as she recited a hypnotic mantra. _What's she doing, casting some kind of spell?_ Inu Yasha mused quizzically. He proceeded to make an effort to comprehend her quick words, white ears twitching and netting her voice.

"What isn't real?" he asked quietly, falling into a crouch in front of the usually impenetrable exterminator. Sango's eyes refocused, but she looked away, expression shadowed by pitch-black bangs. "Huh? Hey, don't ignore me!" Inu Yasha half-yelled, arm lunging forward towards her clenched fist. Mechanically, Sango slumped backwards in a dodge, but the hanyou was always a step quicker, grabbing Sango's injured wrist and squeezing it lightly. "What's in your hand?" he demanded. "What's this 'pressing matter,' huh?"

"Smart, Inu Yasha," Miroku said flatly. "Threatening the poor girl. You're giving her every incentive not to tell you." He, too, hunkered downward, trying to get the post-traumatic Sango to look him in the eye. "Sango…" he pleaded. "Please. As much as Inu Yasha loathes admitting it, we're your _friends_. We're worried. Tell us what's wrong."

A pause. Inu Yasha did not let go of her wrist, vice-like grip unforgiving and resolute. "You're hurting me," Sango told him heatedly.

"Feh." The hanyou released his hold. He then inclined his head, attempting to see between her clasped fingers. "Is it valuable?"

Sango hesitated, and then raised her closed hand, bringing it close to Inu Yasha's face before opening her fist, exposing the Shikon no Tama in its undying glory. Her face was contorted with wrath, and she screamed in his sensitive dog-ears: "Does _this_ look valuable to you, Inu Yasha!?"


	3. chapter 2 :: comrade in arms

**Refert Retuli**

: Hana no Ouji

**Genre**: General

**Rating**: PG-13

**Summary**: Kagome and Kikyou have been summoned once more—from home and from hell, two years after the destruction of the Shikon no Tama, to assist in combating a force that threatens to destroy the heir to Midoriko's legacy: Sango.

**Warnings**: [Cough] Naughty words, alternate pairings, and zombie Midoriko. I doubt there will be a ratings' bump, unless the word "fu—"… Okay, there might be a ratings' bump. [Laughs] The romantic focal point is IY/S. Kagome-isms next chapter, by the way. M/K the chapter after that.

**chapter 2**** :: comrade in arms**

_I would swallow my pride_

_I would choke on the rinds_

_But the lack of thereof would leave me empty inside_

_Swallow my doubt_

_Turn it inside out_

_Find nothing but faith in nothing_

_Wanna put my tender heart in a blender_

_Watch it spin around to a beautiful oblivion_

_Rendezvous, then I'm through with you…_

Inside Out – Eve 6

---

Midnight.

Sango always considered herself a night person; she was comforted by the eerie silence, with soft moonbeams drawn from between wisps of weightless cloud extending like impatient fingertips. An accumulation of stars, luminous dots against a secretive background, glimmered coolly; she had even seen perhaps two fall from their thrones, but in the presence of the Shikon no Tama, she dared not wish upon it aloud.

Clutching the Shikon no Tama between her fingertips and balancing it precariously between sharpened fingernails, she raised it, comparing it to the austerely somber moon, close to achieving fullness. Kagome-chan once told Inu Yasha and her the relative size of the moon in contrast to the world—Inu Yasha stubbornly refused to submit to the theorem, but Sango had never put much thought into it before. Normal children were curious about everything and anything they could get their tiny hands on—Shippou and the village children were ideal examples; her childhood had revolved mainly around physical training, exercise, eliminating weakness, and in between the concrete horrors, as much education as possible and the timid construction of mental and emotional walls.

A short recollection of her nightmare told her that her father had been one of the focal points in the dream. Her father really had taught her everything. He considered every possibility, took into account every defect and every risk and teaching Sango to work against it; then Kohaku was born, and Sango would have rigorously trained _him_ had he not…

Sango stopped abruptly, lowering her hand from the air and clutching the Shikon no Tama, damning it quietly.

She felt alone again, as she had the day she attempted to kill herself. She sighed, drawing her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth—she wished Kagome were here. As sorry as it sounded, the 15-year-old girl had been her best, and perhaps only, friend (aside from Kirara). Often, in times of crisis, Sango would ask herself what someone like Kagome—brave with naïveté, power with accountability—would do.

_If she had the Shikon no Tama, Kagome would…_

The answer became painfully clear.

_…Protect it, like her predecessor._

A conclusion. Sango studied the Shikon no Tama again, taking in its lavender, simplistic beauty—the way it spangled on its own accord, regardless of where light and shadow struck it. _I might not be Midoriko or Kikyou or even Kagome…_ She bit her lower lip, the corners of her lips curved downward in a slight frown. _But until I find out what's going on, I guess I have no choice but to guard it._

But…_her_ predecessors had failed where Kikyou had succeeded. The tribe of demon exterminators found it too difficult a task—and even with Inu Yasha and houshi-sama, what good were a taijiya, a monk, and a hanyou compared to the awesome might of a priestess?

The femme taijiya buried her face in her knees. _Help me…someone…?_

A soft, almost noiseless thud prompted Sango to leap to her feet, a blade shooting out of the clamp on her right wrist. She paused, brown eyes analyzing the rooftop; they narrowed, and she spun around, left foot shifting backwards and position of fists changing. A basic defensive pose. No one there, either. She lowered her clenched fists just barely—was she imagining things…? _I'm so hopeless… Otou-san would be angry…_ She smiled weakly, eyes widening slightly, laughing in negative self-appraisal. "Heh…heh…"

A tap on her shoulder. "Hey."

The normally collected 18-year-old jumped in unadulterated surprise, yelping loudly before gravity took over. She plummeted back onto the roof, sans her usual feminine grace and poise amassed from being born and raised a woman of warfare.

Inu Yasha snickered to himself upon witnessing her almost comical expression of irritation. Sango leapt to her feet and launched her fist out in a blind attempt to punch the hanyou in the face—one that missed, and she became very aware that her center of balance changed; she stumbled forward, falling to one knee. Inu Yasha placed clawed hands on his waist, bending forward to lean over the stiff and slowly recuperating form of the taijiya.

"Geez, Sango. Not on the ball t'night, are we?" he asked mockingly.

"Go to hell," she snapped, giving up the menial task of standing and plopping herself on the wooden log, damp with years of preservation.

"You dropped something." Inu Yasha waved the Shikon no Tama tantalizingly in front of her face, baring his fangs in a savage grin. Sango's eyebrows quirked almost to her hairline.

"Give it to me," she seethed.

"No."

"Now."

"No. I wanna use it."

The taijiya snarled in severe exasperation, grabbing the almost weightless Inu Yasha's ankle and yanking the object clear out from beneath him. He let out a short string of choice words before collapsing onto the rooftop. The jewel bounced up and out of his hand and into hers; she clung to it defensively, glaring at him with a homicidal intensity. "Don't tell me you're still on your little I-wanna-be-a-youkai tirade," she said coldly. "I thought you got over it with Kagome."

Inu Yasha flinched perceptibly at the mention of Kikyou's reincarnation, eyes softening with a sort of melancholy nostalgia. Sango blinked. He wasn't just _sad_.

He was _wounded_.

It was a festering injury, the edges still ripe with the formations of an emotional scar. Apparently, over the past two years, it had grown resilient to the world around it—oblivious to care and assistance and _love_ in any formation; the hanyou had taken special precautions so as not to let this tough-ass wound bleed, especially in the presence of others. Reopened, scarred, tough, unfeeling—you name it, he _was_ it. Hell, her father would commend him for such calloused imperviousness to damage, for being tougher than his own children.

Any mention of Kikyou's name or Kagome's name, presumably, would rip apart any self-inflicted mending on the wound, and Inu Yasha would…bleed. Sango was well aware of the fact that Inu Yasha hated company, specifically when he was discovered in…vulnerable states; he would become a recluse, attempting to bandage and cover up the blood flow with cruel words and violent outbursts. _Does Kagome… Did Kagome know?_

She had similar injuries, she realized.

And he knew it.

Sango found herself murmuring apologies. "Sorry," she said quietly. "Inu Yasha, I didn't mean to…er…that is to say… Sorry," she finished lamely. Inwardly, she kicked herself. Hard. Sango rarely lost the power of speech; she was usually an expert at verbal and physical jurisdiction, often playing leader when asked to exterminate youkai for money. The only person around whom she stuttered was Miroku…

_That was a long time ago._

Inu Yasha was quiet, suddenly stiffening, and back ramrod straight—abnormally so; he was almost bending backwards. Perhaps it was indignation—at least, that's what she associated it with, but she couldn't afford to make sure.

He blinked, eyes of a startling golden hue refocusing.

"Sorry," she said quickly.

He blinked again, and waved one scrawny hand dismissively. "…Don't worry about it."

Her relief was muted, and she smiled tentatively at her hanyou friend. He simply looked away, an unreadable expression crossing his often-angered features. He spoke again. "The _monk_ wanted me to come up here." She tilted her head questioningly; the hanyou rolled his eyes, irritated, indicating the brace from which she had ejected her weapon—the very same she had used on herself. "Why d'ya _think_?"

She smiled weakly. "Houshi-sama was worried about me?" _Full moon tomorrow…or the day after._

Inu Yasha grumbled and folded his arms. "You sound pathetic, Sango." She shrugged helplessly, still with that weak smile. "What happened to the tough, ass-kicking chick I used to know?"

Sango shrugged, tilting her head backwards so as to catch a good glimpse of the moon. "I don't know _whom_ you're talking about," she said blandly, but nonetheless frighteningly sincere—dejected, almost.

His smirk straightened slightly. "What happened to 'er?" he challenged, persistent still.

There was an underlying regard in his question. _Kagome really has changed him._

She shook herself out of her reverie, and her voice dropped to a low whisper—one only he, with his accentuated hearing, could net. "I missed my family."

Inu Yasha seemed mildly annoyed.

"…I want to see my mother again," Sango whispered—or, more accurately, _mouthed_; the hanyou, however, heard it perfectly. With a visible wince, he conjured a visual of at least forty demons ransacking and pillaging a single town, purging it of life and burning it to the ground. The taijiya smiled, reveling in the comfort of her earlier memories. "Kaa-chan didn't die because of Naraku," she said in a louder tone, as if she could tell what he was imagining.

Sango closed her eyes. "Sometimes, for payment, otou-san would have artisans or painters…sculpt or…paint models and portraits of kaa-chan."

Inu Yasha couldn't help but scoff, arcing the corners of his fanged mouth in a smile. "A little over the top, ain't it?"

The taijiya didn't seem to hear him, lost in her memories. Inu Yasha listened with foreign patience. "Kaa-chan was…the best," she said softly. "She was the strongest…the best taijiya in the village… I wanted to be just like her. And so…Kaa-chan…started training me when I was four, a year or so before Kohaku was born."

He began to tick numbers off his fingers, one by one. "How old are you again?" he asked distractedly.

"…18."

Inu Yasha smirked again, a gesture she was beginning to find annoying. "I think you've been slacking off for the past two years, Sango."

"…One day," Sango began again, clasping her hands in front of her, the knuckles crackling loudly as she extended her fingers, "kaa-chan went to the Western Lands." This time, she looked at him, fully and correctly expecting he would recognize it at once. The hanyou's eyes jolted, undergoing a rapid tremor and turning sheet white, though a vein pulsated in the side of his temple. "Wait, wait," she interrupted a soundless ramble, waving her hands. "Let me finish.

"And there…she fought the taiyoukai…your half-brother, Sesshoumaru."

Inu Yasha froze, guilt beginning to leech off of his normally stable heart. "And she…_there_? Why the hell didn't you tell me before!?"

The taijiya shook her head. "Sesshoumaru didn't kill her."

He relaxed a little. "When…?"

"When I was five…she'd already given birth to my little brother."

"That's…not too long ago, I guess."

"For you," she snapped in reply.

"How'd she die, then?"

"…After she died, otou-san trained me in her stead. He was…" Sango hesitated.

"…A bitch?"

"…Harsh," Sango amended. "He didn't have kaa-chan's patience…but he tried so hard to fill the gap my mother's death created… Kohaku knew, too…even when he was only three years old. And we respected him. We wanted to be the best, so he and kaa-chan wouldn't be disappointed." Little silvery orbs danced in the corners of her eyes; her vision of the moon and the sky swam. "Kohaku…he was so young. He would walk around the house…and see so many paintings…so much _art_ created in kaa-chan's memory…" Her voice broke, and instinctively, she spread one hand on her face, fingers tending to each threatening tear and the tremble of her parted lips. "…And he didn't even _know_ who she _was_…"

"He never told his own son about his mother?" Inu Yasha mused, doing his very best to ignore her very real pain. That was, of course, a gesture of pure respect—_he_ sure as hell hated being seen if or when he cried, and so did she. "Did he ever find out?"

"He found out," Sango said bitterly, eyes tightly shut. "I told him.

"I told him…_everything_. What she was like. How she died. The songs she used to sing. He needed the memories," she said, almost defensively, "and I needed someone to tell. He _needed_ to know. For someone to just…_never_ know their mother…"

_Too cruel,_ Inu Yasha agreed wordlessly.

"…After I told him how she died…Kohaku began having doubts…about becoming a taijiya. I told him that kaa-chan would be proud of him…" She shook her head. "…He tried to run away so many times."

She stopped abruptly, recovering from a brief state of misery. "Er… Guess I got carried away," she said, sitting down. "Sorry."

The hanyou shook his head, strands of silver dancing over his eyes. Unbidden emotion—tonight, he had _connected_ with the taijiya; something that, he realized, he had never done before. Sure, he recognized they had a lot in common, but Sango had never…_trusted_ him, or any of them, with that sort of secret, a snippet from a past obscured by the unwillingness to trust… Out of fear that they simply. Wouldn't. Understand.

Sango was right. They wouldn't. Kagome didn't—she listened, and it felt nice. But she couldn't forge any sort of link to it, and _that_ was why she never understood his enduring and unyielding love for Kikyou.

"At least you said something about it," Inu Yasha grumbled. He looked down at her, having stood up long before—after she had reclaimed the Shikon no Tama. "You sure you're gonna be alright? Should I hurt the monk?"

"I'm sure you don't need _my_ permission."

"Feh. You're right."

Silence.

"Are you gonna leave anytime soon?" Sango asked, rubbing at her eyes with her sleeve.

"You'll probably kick me off anyway."

Sango's shoulders loosened, and she slumped against the wooden roof, folding her hands behind her head. "You know, Inu Yasha," she began, a feeble smile playing on her lips, "although you'd probably rather die than admit it, you're…not a bad person." He opened his mouth to retort, but she cut in again, heavy-lidded gaze shifting to the hanyou in question. "And not that bad a friend, either."

"Hm."

The hanyou slowly stalked to the edge of the roof, peering down at the distance between it and the hard dirt below.

"Leaving?"

"Looks like."

"…Thanks."

"No problem."

He hopped off the roof; a soft thud alerted her to his safe descent.

---

Inu Yasha entered the hut, the once-lively fireplace having long been extinguished; it was a dark and gloomy house, presumably an asset of Miroku's, unfurnished with two small beds and a table. _Simple,_ he mused. He was able to discern the fact that the fireplace had recently been lit due to the scent of smoldering wood; he was also able to discern that it was Miroku's because the monk was sitting at the table, looking very forlorn.

The hanyou's eyebrow elevated. "How much did ya hear?" he bristled.

"Enough," Miroku said, voice toneless and negotiable as per usual—but there was a sort of distant antagonism, navy eyes steely and piercing. Inu Yasha could see—he saw perfectly well in the dark, thanks to his youkai half—and he did not like it. At all.

"Idiot," Inu Yasha snapped, folding his arms resentfully. "I don't know what the hell you're thinking, but it's obviously nothing _smart_. I—"

"Relax," Miroku interrupted hastily, though his voice did not change, "I'm not going to accuse you of anything. (Yet.)"

"S'rude to eavesdrop, you know. Maybe Sango doesn't want you to know some shit. So what?"

"Well…no offense, Inu Yasha, but who would trust _you_ instead of a charming houshi such as myself?"

"_She_ would."

"And that's all that matters to me," Miroku finished triumphantly. He paused, eyes narrowing slightly in a manner that would suggest deep thought—contemplating a way to string it together in the most…courteous way possible. "I have no intention of being rude, Inu Yasha, but…" His voice rose, steel-sharpened and resolute: "Don't let her trust you too much."

Inu Yasha's left eye was twitching rather dangerously. "You're fucking kidding, right?"

"No, it's not what you think. I… I'd like her to confide in _me_. Thus, it is essential that you…"

"…Back off. Right, I got it. Dumbass."

**Author's Notes**: Heh… I found it really hard to personify Sango. I don't know; Takahashi-san made her seem far too two-dimensional. I mean, she's loud, yes; she's always denying her feelings for Miroku, yes—but…hmm. I just found it really hard to get her to launch into a spiel about her family and make it seem realistic.


End file.
